


Hanthology of Interest

by mackenziebutterschnapps (hannibalsbattlebot)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Crack, Domestic Fluff, Drunkenness, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Minor Violence, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 20:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4890976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalsbattlebot/pseuds/mackenziebutterschnapps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Anthology of short fics, prompt fills and other flotsam and jetsam, mostly from Tumblr.</p><p>A very mixed bag of crack, fluff, happy, sad, light and dark, etc.<br/>Tags and rating to be changed as more is added.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Samaritan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted things to turn out a little better for S2 Margot.

Billy Coates was out of his truck, legs pumping in a flat-out run before he even realized that he was doing. The accident had happened right in front of his eyes. It was a vicious t-bone and he was afraid for the person in that little car. They were in the middle of nowhere. If Billy hadn’t been there, who knows how long it would take for help to find them.

Billy watched as the driver of the truck got out. At least he could walk. The man from the truck went over to the car and yanked open the driver’s side door, but it wasn’t to help.

“No!”

A woman screamed. The driver of the truck was dragging the driver of the car out. He had her around the middle. He wasn’t that big, but he had her feet off the ground. She flailed her arms and knocked his hat off, but he did not let her go.

_Road rage?_  Billy thought as he ran. Somehow the man from the truck didn’t hear him coming, even though he was huffing like a freight train. He didn’t know Billy was there until he was on top of him. All three of them—Billy, the driver and the woman–fell to the pavement. Billy was on top of the man. He punched him in the face twice, then a third time. He didn’t want to kill the man, but he wanted him knocked out. It had been a few years since his bar brawling days, but it came back to Billy Coates as natural as breathing.

“Stay down, you ugly fuck,” Billy growled, but the man was unconscious. Reluctantly, Billy backed off.

He turned to the woman, who was cowering, one arm on the car seat. She had a cut on her face, and her blue eyes were wide in terror.

“Ma'am are you okay? Do you have a phone? We should call the ambulance.”

“No,” she said. “Just take me to the hospital.”

Billy hesitated, looking over at the man sprawled out on the road. “What about him?”

“Just get me out of here,” the woman said. She was breathing hard. Billy reached down and  tried to help her up, but her leg was hurt. She could limp on it, but it would take a while to get back to his truck. The woman glanced nervously at her attacker over her shoulder.

“It would be faster if I carried you,” Billy said, apologetically.

“Would you?” she asked.

She was so little it hardly took any effort to lift her up, although he didn’t want to jostle her too much. No telling what she had banged up in that accident.

Billy was happy to find that he had remembered to put his truck in park before he had jumped out, but the keys were still in the ignition.  He placed the woman as carefully as possible in the passenger’s seat and then walked around and got behind the wheel.

He drove towards the hospital, not sure what to say to the woman beside him. She was pretty, dressed nice too. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and Billy’s concern level went up.

“Did you hurt your stomach in the crash?” Billy asked.  Internal injuries. They didn’t bleed on the outside but you could bleed to death on the inside before you knew what’s what. He started wishing he had called the ambulance anyway.

The woman moved her arms. “I’m feeling protective,” she said. “I’m pregnant, at least I hope I still am.”

“Oh, jeez, lady,” Billy said, knocking his cap back as he wiped his brow. It was a cold night, but the adrenalin was going sour and he felt sweaty and sick. “Oh, jeez." 

"You saved my life,” she said. She closed her eyes and leaned back. “If this baby makes it, I’m going to name him after you.” They rode on in the quiet dark. “What _is_  your name?”

“Billy Coates,” he said. “And don’t call me Bill because that’s my old man.” He could feel the joke fall flat, but the woman started laughing anyway.

“Billy,” she said, shaking her head and laughing like it was the funniest thing she had ever heard.


	2. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little Fred Squared

"So," Frederick said. "Who makes who breakfast. It's my place, but…"

"I'm the woman?" Freddie said. "Too late for traditional gender roles now. Especially not after—"

"Okay!" he interrupted. "No need to rehash the entire evening."

They both quietly looked at the ceiling.

"So, you're not going to cook me breakfast?" Frederick asked.

"It's amazing you are still single."

"I was going to say the same thing about you."

They looked at each other and smirked. What would have been fighting words to another pair just made them smile like self-satisfied cats.

After a minute, Freddie kicked his leg. Not hard, just enough to get his attention.

"At least go make coffee," she said.

Frederick sat up, rubbing his hair to make it lay down more obediently. Freddie watched him get up and put on a robe. He saw her looking at him and he huffed in what sounded like annoyance, but he had turned his head so she wouldn't see his pleased smile.

"You're staring," he said.

"I'm looking," she said. 

"There's another robe in the bathroom, for guests," he said.

"Does it still have the price tag on it?" she asked. He didn't know if she was taking a dig at his lack of friends or his flashy consumerism.   _Damn she's good_ , he thought, begrudgingly.

"While you're up, scramble me an egg," Freddie said grandly, waving a hand in his direction.

"Shall I butter Madam's toast?"

"Toast is good," she said. "Jelly too if you have it, anything but grape."

"You'll have to get up," Frederick said. "I won't have crumbs in my sheets."

Freddie rolled her eyes, but swung her legs out of bed, planting her feet on the floor.

"This might be an alien concept to you, but I own this house," Frederick said, peevishly. " I live here. I don't rent this room by the hour so I  _do_  care if it gets disarranged."

"Lighten up. I'm just kidding you about making me breakfast," Freddie said. She was pawing around the sheets looking for her clothes. "I don't even eat breakfast. I'll take that coffee to go, if it's ready by the time I'm dressed. If not, no big deal. Don't trouble yourself."

She looked up and caught a passing look on Frederick's face _._

"This...last night was just a one-time thing, right?" Freddie asked.

"Yeah. Yes," Frederick said, too quickly. "We got that out of systems."

 _He offered you a robe_ , she thought. He had been picturing a different morning. One that involved breakfast and lounging around in robes. 

For a moment she could picture it. They already knew they had physical chemistry. And he was one of the few people who would give her grief about her lack of professional ethics. He understood being driven. He understood letting personal relationships fall by the wayside to chase that acclaim that always seems just out of reach. 

"I don't have to go right away," Freddie said. 

"I'm afraid I can't invite you to stay," Frederick said. He fiddled with his belt, cinching down the knot by giving the dangling ends a brisk yank. "I have a very busy morning planned. I thought it would not be gallant of me to usher you to the door at dawn, but, since you also have somewhere pressing to be, it works perfectly for both of us."

Freddie hated to leave it like this, but to say anything else would just be insulting. He didn't have anything else to do on a Saturday and they both knew it.

"One coffee, then," Frederick said, turning to leave. "to go."

 


	3. Wound Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surgeon Hannibal meets future Wound Man

Hannibal stripped off his gloves and snapped them into the trash. Another car accident, another person needing to be put back together like broken pottery. Distressingly common.

“Ah, Dr. Lecter, just the man I wanted to see.” It was Ruma Chowdhury, one of the emergency room doctors on duty. “I have a patient I need you to see.”

“Difficult case?”

They fell in step together, already walking briskly towards the emergency department.

“Yes,” Ruma said, “but it isn’t surgical.”

She stopped him just short of the exam rooms.

“He’s being very stubborn and won’t let me come near him. I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and say it is the alcohol talking, but he’s made it clear. He does not want a doctor of color. Unluckily for him on-duty tonight is me, Ramirez and Jackson, all shades of brown.”

“Maybe we should leave him to suffer the consequences of his bigoted preferences.”

“He’s bleeding quite heavily,” Ruma said. “It is an interesting case. His fellow hunter friend shot him through the leg with an arrow. Accidentally.”

“I’ll take a look,” Hannibal said, taking the chart from the wall holder before he went in the exam room.

The man was laying on his side on the gurney, still in full camo hunting gear and holding wads of gauze around the arrow coming out of his leg. He was groaning softly. The friend who brought him in sat silently by his side.

“So, Mr. Olmstead, not feeling very well today?” Hannibal asked him.

“What the fuck?”  Olmstead said and snapped his fingers at the nurse who was still in the room. “Hey, I said an American doctor. A-mer-i-can, and you brought me Ivan from the Soviet bloc.” He turned to Hannibal and went on. “No offense, I’m sure your medical degree was just the tits where you came from, but I want an American doctor who went to a medical school that was  _not_  in a third world country.” He turned back to the nurse who looked like she wanted to sink through the floor.“ Is that so fucking hard? What is this country coming to when you can’t find one damn American doctor in the whole fucking hospital?”

“Jeremy,” his friend said.

“You don’t get to speak, Drew, because you shot me with a fucking arrow!”

“I’m concerned about your bleeding,” Hannibal said. “May I take a look?”

“No,” Olmstead said. “Nyet. Nein. Whatever you people say.”

“I’m sorry,” Drew said. “He’s really drunk.”

“Don’t talk for me, Drew!”

“Drink loosens the lips but it doesn’t change hearts,” Hannibal said, then flipped the file closed. “Very well, Mr. Olmstead, we have some other doctors coming in in a few hours. Until then, hold pressure on the wound.”

“Is that all you are going to do?” asked Drew.

Hannibal paused. “No. I am also going to advise you to reconsider who you associate with in the future.”

Hannibal left taking the file with him. Ruma caught up with him in the hallway.

“Well,” she said. “How bad was it?”

“I don’t know,” Hannibal said, replacing the file in the holder by the door. “He wouldn’t let me look at it either.”

“You are kidding me!”

“He prefers  an  _American_ doctor,” Hannibal said.

“I was born here!” Ruma said. “I’ve lived here my entire life.”

“There isn’t any logic to bigotry, Ruma,” Hannibal said. “Not everyone can handle men like that with the grace that you do. One day he’ll air his opinions with someone who isn’t so understanding. We might be seeing him again in the hospital, and then it will be no accident. He might not be so lucky to escape with just an arrow through the leg.”

Hannibal smiled, showing he wasn’t seriously wishing Mr. Olmstead any harm. Ruma laughed at his dark humor. “We can hope, right?”


	4. Ain't Too Proud to Beg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick fluffy scene with Beverly and Will's dogs.

“Hey! Katz! I saw that!”

Beverly froze mid-stoop, but without breaking eye contact with Will, she dropped the morsel of hamburger into Buster’s waiting mouth. Buster did not try to be subtle and gobbled his bite with great relish.

“You’ve been sneaking him snacks!” Will said.

“Buster’s my buddy,” Beverly said, patting the squirming, happy little dog on the back.

“He likes you because you feed him,” Will said.

“That’s not true, is it, buddy?” she asked, crouching down so Buster could put his front paws on her leg and lick her face. “He likes me for my personality.”

“I couldn’t figure out why he was getting so pudgy. I thought he had a thyroid problem! I swore to the vet that I wasn’t giving him treats.”

“Well, you didn’t lie,” Beverly said. “I’m not giving Buster any junk. It’s still food that you made.”

“Beverly, I would appreciate if you wouldn’t subvert my discipline.”

Beverly laughed but took one look at Will’s very serious face and said, “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Beverly was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Her black pants were covered with white dog hair.  She scratched Buster behind both ears.

“You’re still going to do it, aren’t you?”

“As soon as your back is turned.”

With a deep breath that, had it been any deeper, would have been called a sigh, Will sat back down at the table to finish his hamburger, ignoring Beverly and Buster.

Beverly joined him.

“If I really thought you were pissed, I wouldn’t do it,” she said. She propped her elbow on the table and leaned forward to make sure she had Will’s attention. “I’m not trying to undermine you. You do an awesome job with these guys.”

A smiled cracked Will’s world-weary expression. “My dogs…they weren’t ever lap dogs or purse dogs. They were never pampered. I’m sympathetic, but they do need structure. I run a tight ship, because they need me to.”

Beverly slapped a drift of dog fur off the tops of her thighs.

“Could a visitor bend the rules a little, though” she asked. “Every once in a while?”

As an answer, Will went into the kitchen and returned with a mason jar that he handed to Beverly “Here. Homemade jerky treats.” Several of the dogs had paid close attention to the hand-off. They were familiar with the jar and its delicious contents. They waited to see if the lady was maybe going to them some.  A few sat down and put on their most obedient expressions. When no treats appeared, they edged closer to Beverly and tried it again.

“Try to make it last,” Will said.


	5. Written in Red Tape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post TWOTL

_From the Office of the County Coroner:_

John Doe #1 is a well-nourished white male in his late 40’s to early 50’s with a pale complexion and a medium build. Head hair is graying dark blonde and eyes are brown. Subject is clean shaven.

Stomach contents include what appears to be red wine and traces of a fleshy material. (samples sent to lab) Fleshy material also found in the decedent’s teeth.

No water found in lungs.

Decedent experienced massive head trauma and internal injuries consistent with a fall from a great height.  No significant neural activity would have been possible post-impact. Unconsciousness would have been instantaneous, followed closely by death. Secondary contributing factor was a through-and-through gunshot wound to the abdomen and blood loss. 

Cause of death: blunt force trauma to the head. Manner of death: undetermined.

* * *

John Doe #2 is a white male in his late 30′s to early 40′s, average height with a slender build. Dark brown head hair, blue eyes, some facial hair present.

Stomach contents include what appears to be red wine diluted with sea water and no solid particles (samples sent to lab)

Decedent shows signs of past trauma, including scars on his shoulder, abdomen and forehead. It is possible the abdominal scar is surgical in nature.

Decedent sustained several perimortem injuries, including a sharp-force injury to the jaw, numerous contusions and abrasions, broken ribs and a break in the right arm. None of these injuries were life-threatening.

Water found in lungs (samples sent to lab). Cause of death: drowning. Manner of death: undetermined.

Pictures taken of the bodies  _in situ_  show John Doe#2 was found with one arm entangled in the clothing (gray sweater, sent to lab) of John Doe #1. It is possible the death was accidental, when in the course of attempting to save John Doe #1, he found himself hopelessly entangled and was unable to free himself from sinking.


	6. A Dog Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-TWOTL. Hannibal and Will discuss the dog issue.

The lady was beautiful, but Will only had eyes for the small terrier at the other end of the smart red leash.

“Peanut! ” she said, as the dog put his paws up on Will’s pant leg and shamelessly yipped for an ear scratch. “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s all right,” he said, obligingly scratching under the pup’s ear and chin. The woman, who had been worried that the stranger would be upset at her dog’s dirty paws on his pants, relaxed.  

“He went right for you,” she said. “You must be a dog person.”

They exchanged smiles and then, when it was clear they were not going to exchange telephone numbers, she tugged the leash to encourage Peanut to move along.

Hannibal let a few moments pass so the owner was well out of earshot.

“You know, right now, our lifestyle doesn’t allow us to be pet owners,” he said. “but maybe in the future-”

“I don’t want a dog,” Will said.

Hannibal cleared his throat and said “It’s not really feasible.”

“I don’t need a dog,” Will said. He sat back in his chair, although the wrought iron back was horribly uncomfortable. He waited for the follow-up questions, knowing they would come.

“If you are saying that for my sake-”

Will gave Hannibal a withering look that stopped him mid-sentence.  

“I’m going to tell you why you think I had all those dogs and then, I’m going to tell you the real reason.”

“All right.” Hannibal folded his hands on the table top. “Let’s hear what I think.”

Will leaned forward, the wind-up for his pitch.

“You think my love of dogs is a holdover from my lonely childhood. Poor little Billy, the sad new kid. His only friend was his old dog Rufus. A boyhood right out of a country song. Pickups, and shotguns, untouchable milk-fed southern femininity squeezed into daisy duke cutoffs. But Billy the outsider only has ol’  Rufus to tell his troubles to. The best friend a boy could ask for. Rufus never let him down until the day he…I don’t know, rushed into the road to push Billy out of the way of a pickup full of teenagers driving back from homecoming drunk on moonshine and Pabst Blue Ribbon.”

He took a sip of the coffee that was his only dessert.

“This wasn’t your experience?” Hannibal asked. “No daisy dukes and moonshine?”

“I never had a dog as a kid,” Will said. “My lifestyle didn’t make it very feasible back then either. We moved too much and my dad worked too many long hours.”

“Too long to leave a dog alone?” he said.  _But what about his son?_

Will ignored the implied question.

“I didn’t take in my first dog until I was on leave from the force in New Orleans. While I was healing from the stabbing, back when I thought I might actually go back to work, a guy I worked with decided I should make myself useful and watch his dog during the day. She was an Australian shepherd mix named Daisy. Pretty dog, but full of energy. Her owner got a better job in Chicago and said I could either keep her or he’d take her to the pound. She was already practically living with me.”

“So you kept her?” Hannibal said. “How altruistic. How compassionate.”

“At least I had at least one reason to get out of bed in the morning. If I didn’t, she’d crap on my rug. So now you’re thinking, you’ve got the answer. Two strays taking each other in?”

“I…didn’t say that.”

“I wasn’t a perfect owner. Ever. There were nights when work kept me, and I’d come home later than I counted on. The dogs would be hungry, dying to pee, but they never held it against me. They’d be happy to see me, jump all over me if I let them, lick my hand, sniff me all over…”

He trailed off.

“You craved unconditional love, acceptance and devotion,” Hannibal said. “Something you couldn’t get with the people in your life.” He smiled down into his coffee cup, remembering how many dogs Will had dragged into his marriage. Every one of them another indicating a deficiency, and Molly hadn’t even known it. He almost felt sorry for her.

“I needed one creature who I didn’t disappoint,” Will said. “Not because I was perfect or even good. I didn’t disappoint them because they were incapable of being disappointed. No matter how shitty I acted, no matter how I disregarded their feelings, I knew my dogs would always be happy to see me. I was their owner. They had no other owner in the world. They relied on me for their very existence.”

Will pushed away from the bistro table and stood, buttoning his jacket. “So, no, I don’t need a dog,” he said, and walked off without looking back, confident that Hannibal would follow.


	7. When the Wine is Red

The last glass of wine was a mistake. He knew as soon as he finished it.

“Ev'n Stev'n?” he slurred. He got up, quicker than he intended and knocked his chair over.

“What?” Will asked. He had no idea what Hannibal had just said, but he could tell something was off. Hannibal was lurching unsteadily from the table. “Okay,” he said, catching on. He stood and gripped Hannibal from behind by the shoulders, guiding him to the nearest bathroom. “You’ll feel better when you puke.”

“"metic?”

“Medic?”

“Emetic.”

“You won’t need an emetic.” Will was calm but knew he was racing the clock. He didn’t feel like scrubbing red wine vomit out of the carpet. “Kneel.”

Will got Hannibal into position in time for him to be violently ill.

“Aw, Becky, do you want me to hold your hair?” he said from the doorway, in between bouts of Hannibal’s retching.

Head still down, Hannibal reached over and flushed the toilet.

“Feel better?” Will asked.

“No,” he said thickly and heaved again.

“Now?”

“A little.”

Will went back into the dining room, righted the chair and poured himself another glass of wine to take with him to watch the show.

Hannibal was sitting back against the wall looking pale and sweaty. “What did you give me?”

“Do you think I poisoned you?” Will lifted the glass he held, took a sip. “Why would I poison you?”

“Evening up the score somehow,” he said.  "I draw the line at tampering with food or drink.“

"I didn’t poison you. You poisoned yourself,” Will said. “You drank too much.”

“Not possible,” he said.

“When was the last time you drank and entire bottle of wine by yourself? There are three empties on that table and we started in on a fourth. You match me, drink for drink. Which I appreciate,” he said. “But it’s a lot for someone who isn’t used to it.”

“Alana let me have my comforts,” he said.

Will shook his head.  _Fucking bottle service in the insane asylum._

“Glasses, not bottles,” he said. “You haven’t drunk this much since Florence. It’s been over three years since you tied one on like this. No wonder you’re sick. Your tolerance is way down.”

Hannibal’s hands tightened into fists at his side and Will was surprised to see tears forming in his eyes. “I can’t navigate this new world. I expected some things would be different. But everything? All the landmarks moved while I had my back turned.”

He was still exceedingly drunk and maudlin, but Will could see the point he was making. Hannibal always had confidence that he knew himself thoroughly. Even the things he chose not to think about were a choice for him. Will knew how terrifying it was to have the furniture in his mind moved around when he wasn’t looking.

Will poured his wine down the sink and rinsed the glass. “On the other hand, I did a lot of drinking while you were gone,” he said. “A lot. I practiced all the time and got pretty good at it and good at hiding it.  A lot of my life was hiding. Hiding and trying to forget.”   He filled the glass with water and handed it to Hannibal. “My tolerance is nothing to be proud of.”

Will had let the tap run until the water was cool. Even the small sip Hannibal took was soothing.

Will left him and cleaned the rest of the dinner dishes while Hannibal waited for the room to stop spinning.

Will cleared everything from the table except the half-full bottle of wine. He braced his foot against the chair and boosted himself up to sit on the table, legs swinging. He raised the bottle and took a swig straight from it. He had seen Hannibal getting drunker through the evening and had thought it was funny to watch that control slip little by little. Hannibal had seen him out of control, sick, drugged. It had brought Will a sadistic pleasure to be the observer for once. Even Steven.

But now he felt bad about it. It felt cruel. 

He could swallow the remainder of the wine quite easily. The itch was there to get drunk. It would make everything so much easier. It would quiet the jangling of his nerves, the insidious tendrils of guilt and the little voices that tried to pull him back. It would simultaneously let him be open to so many possibilities while still being able to blame something else for his actions.

Instead he went into the kitchen and poured the wine down the sink. He didn’t think Hannibal would mind the waste.


	8. Easy Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt for possessive!Hannigram

“Look over there, but don’t look,” Will said, handing Hannibal his drink.

“Who am I not looking at?” Hannibal asked. He sipped his drink slowly. It had to last.

“The guy at the bar with the mustache. He’s our mark,” Will said.

Will and Hannibal had been on the run for nearly a year and the money was almost gone. They had scraped together enough to make themselves look presentable tonight and went out on the hunt, not for sport or food but for enough cash to get them out of town or over the border.

“The man in white surrounded by bodyguards?”

“He has got a roll of twenty’s on him as big as your fist,” Will said. His mouth had almost watered at the sight of the man peeling off a few bills to pay for his drinks and then, with a wink, to pay for Will’s,

“He’s also heavy into drug smuggling, judging from the sheer amount of weaponry his bodyguards are carrying.” Hannibal shook his head. “He’s a bad target, Will. We can’t take his identity, and we can’t even kill him. I’m not going to risk running afoul of the narcos.”

Will leaned in. “Listen. I talked to that guy when I went over to get our drinks. Five minutes into our conversation he offered to take me to Brasilia in his private jet. I said no. Of course. Five minutes later he says I should accompany him to a business trip to Madrid and starts naming prices for ‘companionship.’ I finally said a solid maybe to a weekend at his country estate. He’s having some kind of three-day party out there. I said I had to clear it with you first.”

“It will be a fortified compound, not a bucolic estate. It will be a dangerous situation and I assume I won’t be there to help if something goes wrong.”

“There won’t be any violence. This will be a straight-up grift. He’s a cocky son-of-a-bitch, but I can take him.” Will could see Hannibal was unconvinced. “Let me have this. I can play this guy like a violin…” he smiled “or like a cello. I can string him along on promises. Give me a week at his country estate and I can walk away with plane tickets to anywhere you want to start over, enough money to get us started.”

Hannibal tossed back the rest of his drink and set the empty glass down on the nearest table. “He’s coming over here,” he said.

“He may be under the impression that you’re my pimp. Just play along.” Will smiled again, and then the man in white, flanked by his bodyguards, approached them.

“Hello,” the man said. He stuck out his hand in Hannibal’s direction. Hannibal looked at it as if he was mildly amused.

“Hello,” Hannibal said pleasantly and punched the man in the face.

One bodyguard lunged forward to help his boss as he stumbled backwards. The other had his hand under his jacket, ready to reach for his weapon. The man made a movement with his hand that held them back.

“I will kill you,” Hannibal said, lip twitching in a snarl that did not creep into his voice, which was smooth as ice. “I will kill your bodyguards and then you.”

The man laughed and shook his head. This small-time pimp didn’t know who he was dealing with. “From one businessman to another, you shouldn’t get hooked on your own product.”

He made a proceed motion with his hand and the bodyguards each took one of Hannibal’s elbows. The bouncers were showing up as reinforcements. Hannibal allowed himself to be escorted outside. He had made his point.

“I was going to warn you about the company you keep,” the man said to Will, “but I think you like it. Danger is attracted to you.”

The bodyguards were back. The man signaled with his finger and one of them put a hand on Will’s arm. “Time to go,” he said.

Hannibal was outside waiting for Will. From a distance he looked almost bored, with his hands in his pockets.

“Why did you do that?” Will said, as soon as he was close enough not to shout. He was thinking again about that roll of twenty’s. “I had a plan. Nothing was going to happen. It was easy money—”

As Will got closer he could see he was wrong about Hannibal being bored. He had relief in his eyes and a tightness in his jaw that was just beginning to ease. His hand was hot and throbbing across the knuckles, but when Will held out his hand, Hannibal put his painful hand in his. With his other hand he touched Will’s shoulder as if to assure himself that he was still solid and real, then pulled him closer for a kiss.

Will was upset that Hannibal had ruined his plan, but it was temporary, while any time they spent apart would feel like forever. A single week or even a weekend apart, when they had spent so much time separated by circumstance and their own stubbornness, was too long. He would rather kill a hundred narcos than let Will descend into being a common con man, or worse.

Beyond that, he just couldn’t imagine letting Will go off with another man.

“I may not be able to give you a country estate just yet, but you’ll never go hungry with me.”

The man in white had had his evening ruined. He did not often have something dangled in front of him that he couldn’t then possess. People talk of longing like it is ennobling, but he found it frustrating, borderline infuriating. He wasn’t enjoying himself any more so he threw his money down on the bar and signaled his bodyguards that he wanted to leave.

His chauffeur brought the car close to the entrance, but the man still had to walk past the opening to the small alley that ran alongside the club. He shook his head ruefully at the scene he passed. The two men— _el culero y el hermoso_ —were entertaining each other against the wall. He thought at first _el culero_ was teaching the young one a lesson, but there was nothing punitive or degrading about their act. In fact it was the young one who had the upper hand, so to speak. It was as tender and loving as a furtive alleyway blowjob could be.

 _"Ay, pendejo,_ “ he said, under his breath, looking at the man who had punched him and who now had his bloodied hand clutching at the bottom of the young man’s coat. ” _Nunca vas a ganar dinero de este manera.“_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Spanish is rough at best, but the man in white basically says. "Idiot, you'll never make money that way."


	9. The Night Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margot and Alana's son tells them about his imaginary friends.
> 
> Thanks to [harleygirl2648](http://archiveofourown.org/users/harleygirl2648/pseuds/harleygirl2648) for the name "Samuel" and since the name gave me the idea, also the inspiration for this fic

“We send him to the best schools and this is what happens,” she fretted. “He’s sent home in tears.”

“This was bound to happen,” Alana said.  "Every child eventually hears that Santa Claus isn’t real.“

Margot smoothed back his sweat-damp hair from his red face. "He’s real if you believe in him,” she said, looking him in the eyes.

“He’s not real and you lied to me, Momma!”

The world as he knew it was built on lies. He was angry at Momma, but he still wanted her to hold him in her lap and hug him and tell him everything was okay.

Margot tried to rescue the Santa story, but Alana shook her head at her. It was time. He was old enough for this talk. “What do you want to know?” she asked. He wanted detail. He wanted to know who brought the toys (Mommy and Momma together) and who ate the cookies (the valet). Tears still streaming he demanded to know about the Easter Bunny, too. (They never did indulge in the Tooth Fairy story.)

“What about the Night Men?” he asked, almost exhausted from all the crying and his small but powerful righteous outrage. “Are they real?”

“What night men, honey?” Margot said.

“The men that take me out through the window.”

“That’s just a bad dream,” Margot said. “They aren’t real.”

“What do the Night Men look like?” Alana said, sitting down.

Margot rolled her eyes. Alana was very vigilant about Sammy’s mental and emotional health. Overly-vigilant, Margot thought, but she appreciated that Alana wanted Nurture to triumph over Nature.

Alana touched Samuel’s arm to get his attention. “Sammy?”

“It’s always so dark…I can’t remember.”

“Always? Have you seen them more than once? How many times?”

“A bunch,” he said, his little face screwing up with the effort of remembering. “Once it was my birthday and then once they found me in the cabin so it was summer vacation time and once it was cold. It was almost Christmas. Maybe I was just a baby some of those times so I can’t remember. Babies can’t remember things.”

“But big boys can,” Alana said. “Are there a lot of night men? Do you see the same ones every time?”

“There are two,” he said, “Uncle Pluto and Uncle Stephanie.” He patiently explained this to Mommy. She should know this already. After all, didn’t they tell him Mommy knew they were coming?

Margot breathed out a sigh of relief. Pluto and Stephanie. Obviously, this was just a dream.

“Pluto, the god of the underworld, and his wife Persephone?” Alana said to Margot, over Samuel’s head.

“He just has a big imagination. It doesn’t mean anything,” Margot said, but her grip on their son had grown tight.

Alana held one of Samuel’s small hot little hands.

“Tell me about the last time you saw the Night Men,” Alana said.

“It was at Christmas,” he said.  Only a few weeks ago. “They took me through the window. We went to a place in the car and then we had hot chocolate and cookies. Uncle Pluto played Christmas music on the little piano. The hot chocolate had marshmallows in it and I asked for more but Uncle Stephanie said I would get a tummy ache.”

Samuel saw he had both of his mothers’ attention so he kept on talking.

“Then before they took me home again, we went to a church. It was dark and no one else was there. Uncle Pluto told me mean God stories. He said there was another Samuel a long time ago and his story went in the bible.” He frowned. “He said God gave Samuel’s mommy a baby, but then when the baby growed up, God wanted him back.”


	10. Fathers and Sons

Standing on Kevin’s paint-crackled porch, the well-dressed man looked slightly unreal, as if he had just been taken out of his packaging and carefully set there. Kevin looked past him. A limousine idled in his driveway. So he hadn’t just dropped from the sky.

“What do you want?” he asked. He affected a tough guy squint. His sleeveless t-shirt afforded the newcomer a good view of his bulky well-toned arms. He was a big man and he towered over his slight visitor. Kevin knew who he was although they had never met face to face. He looked like his voice had sounded in his voice mail: a shade too polished and pretty with his thick wavy brown hair, pale blue eyes behind stylish glasses, and ruler-straight white teeth.   _Slicker than owl shit_ , thought Kevin.

“You wouldn’t come see me at my office so I thought I’d come see you.”

“I didn’t come to your office because I don’t have anything to say to you,” Kevin said.

"Could I, maybe, come inside? Five minutes, Mr. Petrocelli.” Morgan Verger rolled his shoulders forward slightly. “That’s what you go by nowadays, isn’t it? Petrocelli? You took your wife’s name, very progressive. Distancing yourself from those negative paternal influences? I thought about doing the same myself but the Verger name has a certain cache.”

“So what if you tracked me down? Bravo. I don’t owe you anything.”

He looked apologetic, but the smile didn’t falter. “Hannibal Lecter killed my mother in exchange for your father’s life. I think that entitles me to at least five minutes of your time.”

“No. Hannibal Lecter saved my  _former stepfather’s_  life for his own reasons and then credited it against your mother’s account. I’m sorry about that, but I take no responsibility.” Kevin crossed his arms. “I could add that he saved my step-father from your biological father, but I’m not trying to be a dick. I really don’t care.”

He had a good withering look and brought it to bear on Mr. Verger, whose expression turned serious.

“He has cancer, Mr. Petrocelli.”

“So?”

“Please.”

Kevin propped open the door and motioned the man inside. “All right. Make it quick.”

The front door opened to the room that served as living room and den. Kevin switched off the television which was still playing cartoons. Katie had finished getting ready for school early and, as was their deal, she watched tv until the bus came.

Kevin cleared a space for his visitor, scooping stuffed animals off the couch.

“You have children?”

“None of your damn business. I changed my name for a reason, Mr. Verger.”

“Privacy. Which I have intruded on.” He shrugged, dismissing this invasion of privacy. “And call me Morgan.”

Kevin dumped the toys on the carpet. He would not be calling him Morgan.

“Which one of them is dying?” Kevin asked. “And why should I care?”

“Both of them, if you can believe that. It’s a coin toss which one will go first.”

“Then it looks like nature succeeded where man failed. They’ve finally got a death sentence. Problem solved.”

“It should be, and although I would enjoy their slow painful deaths, I just found out that Graham and Lecter are petitioning the court for euthanasia under the Death with Dignity Act. They fought tooth and nail to avoid the death penalty and now they are asking to be put to death.  Death with Dignity! Makes me sick. Its better than any of their victims got. Doesn’t that offend your sense of justice?” Morgan dropped his smile again and his voice was flat and cold.  "Maybe they’ll get to die on the same day, holding hands. Wouldn’t that be touching?“

"Are you looking for a shoulder to cry on?”

“Oh no. I don’t want to cry. I want to deny them an easy death. I want to cause them pain,” he said. “Emotional pain would do, but I would really like to cause them physical pain. But, I can’t even get close to the BSHCI. The last time I was there I  _made a scene_ and now I’m restricted, but I bet they’d let you in, Walter Foster- _Graham_.”

“He didn’t adopt me. I was never a Graham, thank god,” Kevin said.  He shook his head. “Look, this craziness is your whole life, but it was only a few years of mine. I’ve moved on. ”

“Mr. Petrocelli… How do I say this without sounding offensive?” Morgan looked up and pinched his fingers together, trying to seize the right words from the air. “That’s bullshit. Hannibal Lecter tried to have you and your mother killed. He put your mother in the hospital. You don’t get over someone hurting your mother, I don’t care how many years it’s been. And then your former stepfather, who swore before god and civil authority to love and protect your mother ran away with her would-be killer, giving tacit after-the-fact approval of that act. He gave Hannibal Lecter forgiveness when it was not his to give. And if you tell me that does not fill you with a bitterness you taste on a near-daily basis then you are either a liar or a psychopath. Either way, you should relish the opportunity to cause harm to them both.”

Kevin’s face was still blank, but his eyes betrayed his doubts. He had to look away from the intensity of the other man’s gaze.

“You just lost your mother,” Morgan said. “You know my pain. That pain doesn’t go away. Not with time. Not with therapy.”

“So revenge is the answer?”

“I’m willing to try,” he said with a sweet smile that gave Kevin a chill.

Kevin thought about his daughter Katie and wondered what she was doing in school right now. She had bad dreams about cartoon villains. At the same age he,  _Walter_ , had the reoccurring dream of the man he called Dad–who had tucked him into bed and watched baseball games with him–instead biting out his throat with his teeth and leaving him to die in a pool of his own blood. In his dream he called out to his mother, but she never came and he felt the dread of knowing if she had an ounce of strength left in her body she would have come.

Katie’s monsters were fiction; his were in the newspapers.  Her idea of pain was when he made her do her chores or being told no. She had the childhood every kid should have.

All the more reason not to fuck it up.

“I can’t,” Kevin said. “I have my kid to think about. I can’t get involved in any shady shit, I’m sorry.”

“Well, thank you for hearing me out.” Morgan stood and they shook hands. “I guess I will just have to settle for dancing on their graves after their peaceful, painless deaths.”

Kevin walked him to the door.

“Just out of curiosity,” Kevin said. “What did you want for me to do when I got in there? Slip cyanide in their gruel?”

“No,” Morgan said. He shook his head regretfully. “I wanted you to help me break them out.”


	11. A Tiny Favor

A woman came out the front door walking quickly and looking distressed. Will had a moment to decide if he was going to help her escape or return her to the house. She put her hand on his arm and leaned towards him.

"Thank you so much," she said, giving his arm a friendly squeeze. "You two are lifesavers."

_Lifesavers?_

She got in her car, still in a hurry but not frantic or scared. As she pulled out of the driveway, she waved at Will and smiled.

Will went inside. The woman looked familiar but he couldn't call up a name and he certainly didn't know why she was in their house.

"Hannibal, who was that woman?"

"Brigitte," he said. "She's our neighbor. She came by to ask a favor. See?"

What Will first took to be a bulky bar towel on Hannibal's shoulder he now could see was actually a small human being.

"She gave you her baby?"

"I'm babysitting. Brigitte had to go to work and the regular babysitter was running late. She said  it would be twenty minutes at the most."

"Which means at least an hour," Will said.

"He won't be any trouble," he said. "They call the first three months the fourth trimester because of how much development the child goes through. It takes a lot of energy. Unless they have colic they sleep a lot."

"Hmmm," Will said.

The baby stirred, making a small grunting noise. Hannibal brushed the fuzzed head with his cheek and made a shushing, cooing noise back to him. He swayed slightly and rubbed the baby's back until he settled back to sleep.

"Could you hold him while I finish dinner?"

"Nope," Will said, sitting down and opening up a magazine he had already read.

"You don't even have to change his nappy or feed him. Just hold him," he said. "He likes to be held. Listening to a heartbeat reminds him of being in the womb. Safe and cozy."

" _You_ offered to babysit. _You_ hold him. I'm in no rush. I can wait for dinner."

Hannibal was still swaying slightly.

Will couldn't decide if this picture was very wrong or very right. Right now Hannibal was being protective, but he didn't know enough of Hannibal's stance on babies to be totally sure the baby would continue to be safe. If Hannibal was a cat, was the baby more like a mouse or a kitten to him? A cat will carry either one in her mouth but one she recognizes as part of the same species and gently cares for, the other is a snack that she can play with before breaking its neck.

"Does he have a name?" Will asked.

Hannibal stopped rocking for a moment and smiled.  "Hadrian."

"No shit. Really?" Will said. "Yes, give your kid a funny name from antiquity. What can go wrong with that? He won't turn out weird or anything."

" _So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called_ ," Hannibal said. "Speaking of roses. You should smell him," he said, and then, with just that edge of coldness in his voice and eyes, he held the baby away from his body, towards Will and said, "Go ahead. _Smell him_."

 _Who allowed this man to have a baby?_ Will snatched Hadrian out of Hannibal's hands and held the child to his chest with both hands--one hand on his weak baby neck, and the other supporting his diapered bottom. Hadrian protested and wriggled as though he wanted to be dropped.

"No," Will said. "We do not eat the neighbor's children!"

"No one said eat," Hannibal said and managed to look genuinely offended at the accusation. "Have you ever smelled a baby?"

Will looked down at Hadrian. From his vantage point he could see the baby's head and one arm that had come out from the swaddling and was moving between the baby's plump cheek and Will's shoulder in jerky, uncoordinated sweeps.

"I'm not around a lot of babies. No one is eager to hand their kids to the weird guy who lives alone in the woods," Will said. "Although apparently, the serial killer next door is a-okay."

Hannibal put one hand on Will's back and the other on the baby. He pressed his nose gently to the top of the baby's scalp. When he pulled back, Will copied the movement. The baby smelled clean, but not like soap. It was a sweet, milky smell.

"What is that?" he took another sniff. He didn't smell dirty diaper or sour spit-up at all.

"That's what freshly-minted humanity smells like. Before dirt under his fingernails or the hormones of puberty or injuries that leave scars. Before he's had a taste of food that isn't his mother's milk. This is what we all start with."

"You bastard," Will said. He was looking at the baby's tiny fingers, the dimples in his fat hands. Smelling his baby smell.  Will settled into a chair with the baby on his chest. Hadrian was still so young he slept folded in on himself, with his legs tucked up under his bottom.

Hannibal brought over Hadrian's blanket, which was handmade in a simple stitch with white yarn. "I'll let you two get better acquainted while I finish dinner."

"Dammit," Will said, but he was alone in the room, just him and the tiny baby who was sleeping on his chest as furled and content as a kitten. 


	12. Cake (The Night Men #2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prequel to [The Night Men](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4890976/chapters/11555530)

“I’m going to have a birthday party on Saturday. Mommy and Momma are having the cook make all my favorite food to eat and there will be presents and cake!”

“What’s your favorite food?” Uncle Stephanie asked.

“Macaroni and cheese!” he said, clapping his hands together. He would eat macaroni and cheese every day if Mommy and Momma let him. Which they wouldn’t.

Uncle Pluto lifted Samuel out of the car, swinging him over his head before setting him down. His uncle’s hands were strong and Samuel felt a giddy tummy feeling like he had made a big scary jump but landed safely on the ground. 

“You can have two birthday parties,” Uncle Pluto said. “You can have many parties. As many as you want.”

“Uncle Pluto believes in self-indulgence,” Uncle Stephanie said.

“Birthdays are for celebrating,” Uncle Pluto said simply, then crouched down to look Samuel in the eyes, on his level. “Why bother having them, otherwise?”

His uncles never brought him to the same place twice. Every time they came in his room in the middle of the night and bundled him out of the window it was a new adventure. This time they drove for a while and parked in front of a bunch of stores. During the day it would be very busy—one of the stores was a huge grocery store–but it was the middle of the night and everything was quiet and dark. They walked to one of the stores, with Samuel holding each of his uncles’ hands.

“One. Two. THREE!” Samuel counted. On the count of three, he pushed off and his uncles swung him, lifting his feet off the ground. Samuel whooped with delighted laughter and his uncles looked at each other and smiled.

“Again!” he said, and his uncles obliged.

When they got to the front of one of the dark stores, Uncle Stephanie took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He went in first and punched in the number to turn off the alarm. Uncle Pluto went in next and turned on all the lights.

Samuel ran off into the building. It was an indoor play place, with trampolines and big foam shapes to climb over. Samuel didn’t wait for permission and he didn’t take off his shoes. He had the whole thing to himself.

It didn’t take long for Samuel to tire himself out. He had been woken up to come here after all. He yawned and laid down on one of the trampolines until one of the uncles noticed how quiet he had gotten and came to get him.

“You all pooped out already?” Uncle Stephanie asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Too tired for cake?”

Samuel sat up and lifted his arms. “Carry!”

Uncle Stephanie lifted him up. He put his hand on Uncle Stephanie’s scratchy beard. “Pretty soon you’ll be too big to be carried.”

Samuel didn’t like to think about that. If he ever got too big to be carried then his uncles wouldn’t be able to pick him up and carry him out the window and the visits might stop. Samuel tightened his grip on Uncle Stephanie and buried his face in his neck.

“Easy,” Uncle Stephanie said and gave Samuel a hug. Then he bounced him up and down and said, “Let’s. Go. Get. Some cake.”

Uncle Stephanie took Samuel into one of the side rooms where Uncle Pluto was waiting for them. It was decorated with balloons and white and gold streamers and on the table there was a small cake blazing with candles.

“Happy birthday, Samuel!” the uncles said. They sang the birthday song and Samuel blew out all the candles with almost no help.

“Are you coming to my birthday party Saturday?” Samuel asked as Uncle Pluto cut a slice of cake. He stood up in his seat, but Uncle Pluto gave him a stern look and he sat. “I’m going to have a pony! Everyone can ride him, but he will be mine to keep and I can name him.”

“What are you going to call him?” Uncle Stephanie asked.

“I don’t know.” Worry creased his small brow. “You can help me. When you see him, you can tell me what name he looks like.”

“We can’t come to your birthday party,” Uncle Stephanie said. “But we didn’t want you to think we forgot, so we’re throwing you this party.”

“Why you don’t come?” Samuel said.

Pluto handed him a fork. Real metal, not plastic. “You know these visits are a surprise from your mommy,” he said “and it isn’t the right time to tell her yet. If we come to your party, it will ruin the surprise.”

“Why does it have to be a surprise?”

“Sometimes mommies don’t like to share,” Uncle Pluto said. “Eat your cake.”

He took another bite as Uncle Pluto served himself a slice.

“Do you gots kids?” Samuel asked. “Are you daddies like Momma and Mommy are mommies?”

Another look between the uncles, this one not as happy.

 "We love each other very much, like your mommies love each other,” Uncle Pluto said. “but we don’t have a Sammy of our own.“

"We used to,” Uncle Stephanie said. “We had a daughter a long time ago and we were her daddies.”

“Where is she?”

Samuel was excited. If his uncles had a kid, it would be like he had a cousin to play with. 

“She died, Sammy.”

“Why she died?”

Uncle Stephanie stood up and left. Uncle Pluto watched him with sad eyes and even after he was gone he watched the place where he had been for a little bit before he looked back at Sammy. He was smiling again, but the sad eyes were still there.

“Your uncle and I made mistakes, and those mistakes put together made one big mistake. We all got very hurt and our daughter hurt worst of all, too hurt to live.” Uncle Pluto picked the cake knife back up and wiped the blade clean on a napkin that was printed all over with colorful balloons. “This is not something you have to worry about. This almost never happens.”

“But—”

“We shouldn’t talk about that anymore. It makes your uncle mad and when grown ups get mad sometimes they do things that are bad and scary. They make mistakes and they see that later, but its too late, they’ve done the bad thing. The bad thing can’t be fixed. Tell me–what happens when you make a mistake?”

“I say I’m sorry.”

“Does that make the mistake not happen? If you broke something, does it become not broken?”

“Sometimes we can use glue and stick it back together.”

“And sometimes not,” Uncle Pluto said. “When you hurt someone’s feelings, they have cracks in their hearts that may not go away.”

“Does Uncle Steph have a crack in his heart?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a crack in your heart?”

“Yes,” he said. “Most grown people do.”

“Do Mommy and Momma?”

Uncle Pluto drove the knife into the cake, cleanly cutting another slice free. He smiled a smile that even made his eyes happy. “Oh yes,” he said.

Samuel looked away from his uncle’s happy face, instead looking at the slice of cake his uncle had just slid onto a plate.

“Is that Uncle Stephanie’s cake?”

Uncle Pluto handed the plate to Samuel for inspection.

“What do you think?”

“I think you should cut him one with a flower,” Samuel said, pointing at the fattest red rose. He wanted Uncle Stephanie to feel better so he was giving away the icing flower that everyone knows belongs to the birthday boy. A few flashes of the knife and Uncle Pluto cut a slice of cake with the rose perfectly centered.

Uncle Stephanie was sitting by the window in one of the other party rooms. This room didn’t have any decorations. It was dark and bare. He looked up and gave Samuel a small smile.

“I bringed you cake,” Samuel said. He walked slowly and carefully, holding the plate out in front of him.

“I don’t want any cake, Sammy, but thank you.”

Samuel looked down at the cake on the plate with its single perfect rose. He wasn’t sure what to do. Why would anyone not want such a perfect piece of cake?

“On second thought, I would love some cake.”

Samuel put it on the table in front of him and then took a fork out of his pocket.

Uncle Stephanie put a forkful of cake in his mouth and Samuel watched with some anxiety. Grown ups were strange and he didn’t understand them.

He didn’t know why anyone would be at a birthday party, eating yummy cake that had a perfect icing flower on it and still have tears in their eyes.


End file.
